


The Shop Across the Way

by Reneehart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack Fic, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Sassy Will Graham, Will makes fun of Hannibal for 2k+ words, and will runs a sex shop, hannibal operates a funeral home, or - Freeform, yes this was inspired by Four Seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: Hannibal has operated a successful funeral home for years until his business begins to decline.He suspects it has something to do with the miscreant and his business across the way, a crass proprietor of an even crasser shop.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 184





	The Shop Across the Way

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I had a little too much fun with the whole Four Seasons debacle because a (fantastic) anon on Tumblr suggested that the newest trend to sweep fandom should be sex shop worker/ crematorium worker and I couldn't have agreed more.
> 
> This was just a silly little thing I wrote. No direction planned though I may add to it as inspiration strikes me.

~x~

Hannibal had never spoken to the clerk who seemed the sole proprietor of the shop across the street from the funeral home he operated- though he knew him well enough by sight alone to recognize him. A half-stranger, the sort of person one sees on a daily enough basis without once ever learning their name. The grocers, the bus drivers, the baristas- the sort of people who tended to fade, distort into the background of the world. More prop than person yet an absence that would still be notable should you step up to the counter and stumble over your morning coffee order when giving it to an unfamiliar face- someone who had to lean in and ask questions because they didn’t know you preferred skim milk to whole or two extra portions of sugar.

They had operated opposite each other for years, and still, Hannibal did not know his name- no tag affixed to his flannel button-downs. Not as if it mattered- he would never approach him close enough to see the name regardless, his lip curling in distaste every time he sauntered past the building even though it stood on the opposing side of his own business. When he first moved into the neighborhood- establishing his funeral home as the most efficient, luxe and considerate one in the area- the building had been an eatery. Nothing too lavish nor homely, but a quaint and casual bistro that he visited on the rare occasions he had not prepared himself a meal and was unable to do so. The owners were polite and there had been a mutual benefit to their close proximity- Hannibal never cared for the pushy nature of some businesses, but if his clients asked for a referral he was always certain to recommend the shop across the way.

Funerals were lucrative to many businesses, after all. Profit found in the painted and glued flesh, the ashes and fine fragments of bone stored in vases.

The symbiotic nature of their relationship had come to a tragic end when one half of the elderly couple who operated the shop passed in his sleep- leaving lovely Edith to sell the storefront and move in with their son several hours away.

A tragedy compounded by when _he_ moved in.

Gone were the sweet iron patio chairs, the window display of assorted treats and bread that sat for too long on the sill. He had watched the renovation with keen interest, eyes narrowing at the black adornment that was fixed to the glass and had- naively, perhaps- assumed that such was a temporary arrangement until the shop was ready to be opened.

But the shop opened, and the black curtains adhered to the glass remained and he realized, with abject repulsion, that the bistro had been haphazardly turned into a shop solely for adult clientele.

Even more egregious, the new owner hadn’t even bothered to alter the front, leaving the pale purple siding and overgrown gardens beneath the storefront windows to clash with the reality of the shop. A jarring contrast made even more agonizing by the cheap banner strung across the building in place of a proper sign befitting of a brick-and-mortar business.

_Fantasy Island_ , it read, the font a nausea-inducing shade of red.

How heinous, how truly sordid, to open a _sex shop_ opposite his well-revered funeral home.

How _mortifying_ , to hold the hand of a grieving widow as he offered a slow tour of the immaculate and perfectly decorated viewing room only to have to shift his body in front of the large windows of his own business. Afraid that she would raise her head from where it was bowed in her sobs and see the words _Fantasy Island_ emblazoned across the otherwise unassuming street.

It was a cruel joke of God that Hannibal had initially purchased the home because of the large windows, pleased with the natural light that filtered through the panes and the once innocent and sleepy town it offered a view of. Now they had become the bane of his existence, but what use was there in purchasing thick and opaque curtains when the front porch would still bear witness to the shop and all its tawdry offerings?

Hannibal was nothing if not an organized man, his books a point of pride for any proprietor. Business expenses and reports all neatly filed away; daily, weekly, and monthly reports comprising the drawers of his desk. A set-up to make any accountant envious, and it was with no small amount of irony or theatrics when he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands before him with the realization spread so obviously in black-and-white.

The owner of _Fantasy Island_ needed to be taken care of.

Whatever his name, the half-stranger with his averted gazes and dog-hair covered plaid garments was a menace to his business. The singular source of his recent hemorrhage of money and the debasement of his otherwise respectable business.

It was a matter of principle, of course. Hannibal Lecter was well-off and would never want for anything, his estate and the funds of his once-prominent family more than enough to exist in his preferred decadent lifestyle. The loss of profit had no real bearing on his own comfort and perhaps that was the greatest offense. Hannibal had crafted a livelihood, turned a passion into a career that he was proud of and that once held in high esteem, a reputable place to lay your loved ones to rest in one final celebration, and all of it was being stripped away- turned into a _mockery_ \- by a curly-haired deviant and his black-covered windows.

It was with this in mind that Hannibal shrugged his jacket on over his shoulders, offering a parting glance to himself in the mirror beside his entryway, before leaving his business for the evening, locking it firmly in place. It was winter, the evening heralded in earlier and earlier so that even though it was only five o’eight in the afternoon the world was already coddled in shadows. Save for the dim glow of the dotting streetlamps and the singular hanging above the door on the shop across the way. Beneath the fading banner that was proving to be a permanent fixture rather than a temporary one and how unbelievably awful that his business was suffering from such an establishment that couldn’t even be bothered to do debauchery correctly.

He glanced down the street to ensure no traffic was incoming before traipsing across the road, determination propelling him toward the offending shop. He approached it, sighing in resentment that he had been forced to such lengths as to step within such a store, eyes closing as he braced himself for the depravity within.

He pushed the door open, a bell chiming with his entrance.

"Good evening," Hannibal greeted, lips pulling into a terse line as the clerk lowered his head to the book once more, offering only a grunt in acknowledgment before extending his hand out.

  
  


"I.D.?" 

  
  


Hannibal blinked once at the curt command, bristling even as he reached a stiff hand into his pocket. He produced the leather bifold wallet, stepping forward and pinching it at the center to hold out for him to examine.

  
  


"No, take it out," he clarified, glancing up from beneath the fan of his lashes- long and fluttering even as he batted them over an aborted eye roll, perhaps remembering halfway through the gesture that he was meant to be providing customer service.

  
  


Hannibal's frown deepened, gaze slanting around the shop as he considered the merits of simply killing him now with none of his usual preamble. A scene disguised as a burglary gone fatally wrong- but a glance behind him dashed any hopes of such an efficient end to his mounting frustrations. A customer stood in the too-narrow aisles, perusing a display of lingerie. Cheap fabric with weak stitching, the sort of one-size-fits-all nonsense that flattered no one and tore too easily beneath eager hands. 

  
  


He returned his focus to the counter, slipping the identification card from the slot of his wallet and passing it over. The clerk took it, not even glancing up from his book as he held it up and behind him, allowing the security camera to linger for a moment before handing it back over.

  
  


"You didn't even look at it," he stated, a brow quirked as he considered the card held between them.

  
  


The man sighed- a long and exasperated sound- before flicking the card beneath his lowered gaze. An obvious charade, humoring Hannibal as he returned the card, lips skewing into a wry smirk. "Yeah, you're over eighteen," he muttered, the thinly-veiled insult seeping into the words. 

  
  


Hannibal clenched his jaw, a minute flicker of irritation passing over his face before releasing the tension, slipping his I.D. and wallet back within his pocket. "I'm not here to shop, I'm afraid," he began. The statement had a startling effect on the man, prompting him to snap his head up in a sharp, too-quick motion, his brow furrowed.

  
  


"We don't have booths," was all he said, scowling with the over-enunciated syllables and Hannibal blinked, the misunderstanding slow to come to him.

  
  


But it did eventually, and his mouth pulled outward into a restrained grimace of repulsion as he added, “No, I’m here to speak with you. I’m Doctor Hannibal Lecter. I operate the funeral home across the street.”

  
  


The introduction had a curious effect on him, his shoulders slouching in obvious relief that Hannibal wasn’t that particular sort of deviant. They were quick to stiffen though, spine straightening as he tilted his chin up, plush lips twisting into a pout. “I didn’t think you were the sort…” he muttered, the words tapering into a sigh before he added in a brusk voice, “Doctor? I didn’t know you needed to be a doctor to be a mortician.” 

  
  


“It was a career change,” he replied, the answer more abrupt than he tended to offer but it seemed a safe enough assumption that this half-stranger would be unbothered and likely bored by the details. There was no sincerity in his question, merely mild intrigue laced with the desire to ridicule. How undignified, he thought. Precisely the sort of miscreant to open such a vulgar shop on an otherwise charming street. 

  
  


He tipped his head forward, brow only raising so that it disappeared into the riot of tangled curls, entirely too long. “You were a doctor...and now you’re a mortician?” he asked, the words slow and overemphasized; incredulous.

  
  


“A surgeon, to be precise,” he said, the angles of the syllables sharpened in a low warning that would go unheeded- a riddle too enigmatic to decipher. 

  
  


His lips split into a crooked grin. “Too many people die on the table? Figured you would save yourself the middleman?”

  
  


Hannibal cleared his throat, attempting to return the conversation back to the track it had careened from. “As I was saying. My name is Hannibal Lecter. You are…?”

  
  


“Will,” he said, slouching forward once more. “What did you want?”

  
  


“To keep the conversation short, I was hoping to discuss the presentation of your storefront. Namely, your banner. It’s rather...attention-grabbing,” he said.

  
  


Will tipped his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, it’s a sign. That’s sort of the point.”

  
  


“Yes, well, it’s rather hard to operate the sort of business I maintain when opposite my viewing room is a rather garish advertisement for your…” he hesitated on the words, glancing around the cramped shop. Segmented into two rooms and divided by a threshold with only a beaded curtain to act as a partition, the room they stood in now was filled mostly with racks of clothing. Lace panties with open backs, negligees that seemed almost prudish compared to the other wares. Some more...novelty style items were merchandised on the shelves surrounding the counter but the bulk of the more adult products were safely obscured in the adjoining room. He returned his gaze back to Will, concluding his sentence with a pointed, “Products.”

  
  


Will scoffed, raising a hand and threading his fingers through the curls, tousling them further. “Yeah, tell me about it. Hard to keep clients horny when there’s a wake going on next door,” he quipped, adding beneath his breath, “and the people still horny aren’t the sort I care to see, you know?”

  
  


Hannibal was hardly the sort of man to scowl, the gesture one unbecoming on someone so controlled. But he came close to it, brows sloping inward and nostrils flaring with a punched out exhalation. “I was simply hoping you would be considerate enough to cooperate and remove the sign so that my clients could say goodbye to their loved ones with dignity,” he said. A ruse, really. The business was an affront regardless of the sign hanging loftily above the door and it was his full intent to kill the man responsible for such a blight, the conversation merely being an opportunity to learn more about his recent prey. 

  
  


Still, he had hoped for at least a serviceable amount of civility. 

  
  


“Yeah, sure. Right on it,” he answered, this time completing the eye roll in its entirety, not even bothering with pretenses as he waved a dismissive hand in Hannibal’s direction. “Anything else?”

  
  


“Just one,” he said, lips pulling into a serene smile that revealed his teeth- too many, too sharp. “Have you a business card?” 

  
  


Will tossed his head back, barking out a sharp laugh. “A business card? I sell vibrators and porn, does that seem like the sort of profession that needs a business card?” 

  
  


His smile did not falter, eyes gleaming as he tipped his head to the side. “Well, then perhaps you could give me a store number and your name? If nothing else, I’d like to at least have the opportunity to reach out to you before holding up your business.”

Will grumbled something, the words garbled in his mouth but he reached for the register, tapping a button with more force than necessary. The receipt tape unspooled, a blank sheet whirring from the printer and he ripped it off, laying it flat on the counter as he scribbled his name and a number on the cheap paper. “Here,” he said, sliding it along the countertop. Hannibal accepted it with a thanks, slipping it within his pocket. 

  
  


The phrase “ _It’s been a pleasure to meet you”_ sat on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed it: not so much to avoid the misstep of such an obvious lie as it was to avoid hearing any more crude jokes from the brash man and he turned from the counter with an informal goodbye.

  
  


“Wait,” Will called out, making him pause in his step and glance over his shoulder. Will pulled something from a display shelf beside him, leaning across the counter to hold the object out to Hannibal. “For you.”

  
  


He didn’t reach for it, instead lowering his gaze to the item held in slender hands. It was a bottle of lubricant, the sticker across the plastic bearing the silhouette of a woman- legs spread, waist bent in a lean. The brand name of _Eaze_ sat in bold font across the front, and in smaller typeface was the advertisement that it was _self-warming_. 

  
  


His lips twitched, eyes sliding in a slow arch to meet Will’s- the gaze quickly averted, faltering beneath the challenge. Still, he held out the bottle, mouth slipping into a coy smile and Hannibal said, “No thank you. As I said, I didn’t come here to make a purchase.” 

  
  


There was no shame in the matter, of course. Hannibal lived a life of wanton and hedonistic pleasure but he had _standards_. Yet, he understood that such purchases were to be made in shops that were polite enough to practice discretion, with kindly clerks and ideally products that wouldn’t result in chemical burns from such low quality. 

  
  


Certainly not the sort of establishments with beaded curtains and novelty-sized marital aids sitting beside Will’s elbow.

  
  


Will didn’t relent, however; wriggling the bottle of lubricant as he said, “It’s a promotion. Every customer gets one.” He paused, blinking as he used his free hand to gesture to a bowl of small foil packages. Single-use portions of the same lubricant but before Hannibal could question him on why he was offering a full-sized product, he said, “normally we give the sample sizes, but I figure you’ll need a lot more to get the stick out of your ass.”

  
  


Hannibal said nothing else, retreating from the shop to the sound of roaring laughter as he considered whether Will was worth his usual ritual at all or if the meat would simply be too foul.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr for sneak peeks, snippets and to suggest heinous ideas for fics that I may be depraved enough to write! Reneehartblog.


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